Harry Potter and the Sorter's Revelation
by grammar conscious possum
Summary: With the wizarding world in turmoil, Voldemort on the loose, and the Hogwarts Talent Show only a few days away, Harry and co are forced to turn to an unusual source for advice...


**Harry Potter and the Sorter's Secret**

By the author of _Harry Potter and The Diabolical Directorate_, _Harry Potter The Mesmerist's Gift_, and _Unfortunate Goings-On at Hogwarts_. The author is not affiliated in any way with JKR, and morevoer has too much time on his hands (testimony by his daughter and beta-reader). Enjoy!

* * *

Winter had come and dark northerly gales hurled icy rain against the leaded window panes of Hogwarts. Harry stared out the window into the blackness, shivered, and threw another log on the fire, before returning to the copy of "The Magic Powers of Prunes" which was lying neglected on his desk. Ron was at his desk too, but doodling rather than working his essay.

A cursory glance at what he was doodling made it clear that his unrequited passion for Parvati still burned, and that his imagination had lost none of its powers. Harry sighed and sat down once again at his desk.

The door creaked open, admitting a freezing draught.

"Hi Hermione." His voice was listless, and Ron merely looked up, slid his doodle under a textbook, and reached for a battered copy of a publication from the Magical Health and Safety Authority on incendiary spells, before nodding to her.

"Why are you two so down in the mouth?" she asked, dropping an armful of books and a violin case on the floor and perching herself on the edge of the desk.

"Why are we a tad depressed," Harry wondered aloud. "Could it be that Dumbledore is dead and that Hogwarts is becoming a boring crammer under McGonagall, or that I wasted a month trying to find Voldemort and have to study sixteen hours a day to catch up, or that Ron is pining after another female, or that we have two weeks to prepare an act for the school talent show and have nothing done… I don't know really."

Ron reddened and said nothing.

"Don't be such a wet blanket." Hermione said, "I made an amazing discovery in the music section of the library, among the accordion music folders where no-one ever goes. I found a previously unknown work for a string quartet by Mozart, his first. We can play that as our act."

Harry groaned, "I am aware that you have reached grade nine or above in piano, violin, oboe, alpenhorn, lead, rhythm, classical and air guitar, but you must be aware that my musical talents do not extend past the kazoo, and that, from the state of his hair, Ron has lost the comb that he used wrap in silver paper to play a version of _The House Of The Rising Sun_ on, his only musical accomplishment. What makes you think that it is Mozart's first thingy anyway?"

"Has to be. It is written in crayon. Anyway, we can't just brood all day. We'll think of something."

Harry stood with his back to the fire and warmed himself while regarding her gravely. Final year students were allowed considerable discretion as to how they dressed, a fact he regretted as he eyed her anorak, orange ball gown, green tights and beige platforms.

"Have you made any progress in researching forbidden curses? I will need something pretty drastic when I do succeed in tracking Voldmort down."

At that she reddened. "I tried to get McGonagall to give me access to the restricted part of the library, but she said no way, even Aurors are not allowed access to some of that stuff."

"Did you not tell her what it is for?"

"I did, she said tracking Him down is a job for the Ministry."

"The Ministry? That lost couldn't find their rectal regions in the dark."

"I'll try her one more time."  
"Good, do that, and Ron and I will think about the act."

"Huh?" Ron was gazing blankly into the distance, his mind a thousand miles away in some non-G rated fantasy.

"Come in, Hermione."

She had not yet knocked, so she was a little flustered when the office door opened.

She took a seat in front of the desk and looked around. The Sorting Hat lay on its shelf, the Phoenix was happily swinging on his little swing, and the former Heads of Hogwarts were in their portraits, mostly playing cards or knitting, except for Dumbledore, who was reading "The Racing Post" with a pencil behind his ear.

"I have been talking to Harry. We feel it is inevitable that he will come up against He..He Who Must Not Be Named again, and he has to have something powerful to use against him."

The old witch shook her head, "I have said no before and I meant it. Harry is still only a student, and not mature enough for the more powerful types of magic. He will be safe here while the Ministry hunts down the evil one."

Hermione lost it. "_Here_ was not very safe for Dumbledore, was it? Surely there must be some spells that would give him an edge in a fight with Voldemort. Not necessarily fatal, but powerful. You cannot leave him defenseless. Dumbledore would have stretched the rules."

McGonagall went red. For months, all she had heard was "Dumbledore this" and "Dumbledore that", until she had him up to here. Grim faced, she looked up at his portrait. A bat, the creatures that take the place of owls in the netherworld, had just delivered a parchment to him, and he was glumly tearing up a pile of betting slips.

"Miss Granger, if you ask me to break the law again by allowing you access to restricted materials I will deduct two hundred points from Gryffindor. Now please leave, and I do not want to see you here again."

Eyes stinging with humiliation, Hermione stood abruptly, accidentally emptying her schoolbag on the floor as she did so.

"I need to go to class now, Miss Granger, and I expect to hear no more of this matter."

She slammed out, and Hermione knelt and began putting her books back in her bag.

"Psst."

She looked around. No one was there, no lurking house elf, no passing ghost. The figures in the paintings were ignoring her.

"Psst. It's me."

The Sorting Hat twitched.

"Put me on your head."

She complied.

"Hmmm, malicious, vindictive, petulant, definitely a candidate for Slytherin."

"Excuse me!"

The hat coughed. "My apologies, I am afraid I am not too accurate with girls after puberty. It all becomes very date sensitive. Now, where were we? You need a powerful spell, so look up Erwin Glader's "Book of Hat Spells" in the library. Page 731. Mind you, I've said nothing."

* * *

It was late, and the three furtive figures were crouched low over the massive tome in the corner of the library, whispering excitedly.

A footstep echoed from the corridor outside.

"Quick, the cloak."

Their teenage growth spurts, plus Hermione's generously developing upper works, made it difficult to cover all three but they were hidden just in time for Filch to appear, sniffing the air suspiciously before moving on.

"Bugger, that was close," said Ron.

"Think it will work? "

Hermione sniffed, "Don't see how, it is a very situationally specific spell. Albeit powerful. How it ended up in this book I will never imagine. It is practically all muggle conjuring tricks."

She raised the cover, which showed a man in evening dress and a tall hat holding a pigeon and a string of flags.

"These compilation spell books, they pick tricks up everywhere and stuff them in without trying them. " Harry commented, and when he saw them staring at him said, "I heard it in a pub in London when I went looking for Voldemort. Lot of good wizard joints there. Anyway, it's not much use to us. "

A moment passed. "Or maybe it is. We need to lure him to Hogwarts, where the local dampening fields will reduce his powers drastically. And I think I know of a way."

* * *

It was drizzling in Hogsmeade as Harry made his way into the Three Broomsticks.

"Well, look who it is, Mr. Harry Potter." Goyle was trying to fill the shoes of the fugitive Draco Malfoy, handicapped only by his slow-wittedness and entry-level IQ. "I believe we will be entertained to some authentic Muggle magic by you at the concert." He turned to his cronies and they all laughed.

"That is true, Goyle, and I am looking forward to your ballet sketch." Harry walked on.

"Ballet?" muttered Goyle, who was planning a juggling display, "I ain't doing no ballet!"

But by then it was too late, his cronies were exchanging worried glances and edging away.

At a corner table Harry smiled and sat down, "Rita, you are looking lovelier than ever."

Skeeter's close set eyes narrowed. "What do you want, Potter. Cost me my job last time I listened to you."

"Yes, but you must be enjoying the freedom of the freelance lifestyle." Potter gushed. "And you have lost weight."

"That's what being a freelance writer does for you. Enough about my lifestyle, what have you to say to me?"

"An exclusive, my dear."

* * *

Harry stopped at the top of the steps, his Firebolt over his shoulder, and winced. He was getting too old for these hundred foot falls during Quidditch. There was a new poster on the board, for the show. Among the acts was "Harry Potter and his Astounding Conjuring display," featuring a picture of himself. He frowned at the picture. His scar did not really reach as far as his neck. Artistic license, he supposed.

* * *

Two third years were passing, whispering, one holding a tabloid newspaper. He read the headline with pleasure: "HARRY POTTER CLAIMS DARK LORD HAS LOST POWERS – USED HIS LAST POWERS TO DESTROY DUMBLEDORE".

* * *

Hermione's fifteen-minute-long violin recital got a patter of applause, Goyle's attempt at juggling was shouted down with cried of "Where's yer tutu Goyle?" and Ron's poem was stopped after three verses on the grounds of good taste. The night dragged on, until finally Harry strode on stage in immaculate evening dress and a sweeping cape, and gingerly placed a top hat on a small table.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, I shall astound you with a display of the finest of Muggle conjuring, without using the slightest bit of magic."

There was thunderous applause, first when he correctly guessed a card picked out by a girl from the front row (clearly identifiable as Hermione in a blonde wig and sunglasses), and then when he sawed Ginny Weasley in two with little more than unimportant flesh wounds.

He was working towards his finale when he became aware of a hissing noise behind him and a smell of burning granite, and noticed that the attention of his audience was wavering.

Fake wand in hand, he turned to see a dark circle appear in the twelve foot thick castle walls, and - lit from behind by bright moonlight - a cowled and robed figure striding through the opening towards him.

The figure stopped centre stage, and threw back its hood.

"Well, Potter, so good to see that you have found your niche, performing second rate muggle fairground tricks."

A horrified whisper went up - "Voldemort" - and the entire student body attempted to fit though the door simultaneously. They were followed by all of the staff except for McGonagall and the new defence against the dark arts teacher, old Professor Winters, who had fallen into a light doze during the first act.

A slight motion of one hand froze the audience, and Voldemort advanced on Harry, who spoke.

"I expected you would be too busy creating death spells and forbidden curses to master the subtleties of commercial magic."

"Indeed I was Potter. Weak and childish stuff it is too. I am amazed you wasted the last weeks of your life studying it."

"It is not that simple, though. I'll bet you could not do the simplest rabbit spell."

"Rabbit spell indeed, I have no time for that rubbish."

He paused, however, and picked up the hat, whispered something and reached in.

Almost under his breath, Harry whispered the words "_Cuniculus magnus terriblis_" and whipped his wand out and brandished it.

Voldemort seemed not to have heard. He had reached in and seemed to have caught something or been caught by something, and his brow furrowed.

Something grey appeared over the edge of the hat, and began to grow rapidly. Ears appeared, round eyes, and massive front teeth, all growing at a terrifying rate. Voldemort dropped the hat and began shouting curses and spells, but the creature grew, faster and faster, the jaws taking in more and more of Voldemort's arm. Finally the hat held only a massive cottontail, then it fell to the stage.

A tumult of noises indicated the audience had been freed from the spell, and they stood transfixed as the creature, now three metres high, gnawed at its screaming victim.

It took ten minutes before Voldemort's madly kicking legs finally disappeared into the maw of the creature, which turned its crazed eyes at the audience, seeking more victims. McGonagall was ready.

Fifty wands were pointed, fifty voices shouted a spell as one, and the creature shrank and shrank into a tiny grey bunny. Harry swept it up and dropped it into the hat, folded the hat flat and stuck it into his bag.

He turned and bowed to the audience and the applause began, not stopping until he had three encores and released a dozen pigeons from his armpits.

Later, he sat in a silent tense line with Ron and Hermione in front of McGonagall's desk.

"By a miracle, we had a fortunate outcome to this, the most evil of the forbidden curses. Unleashing a nemesis, a magical creature of vengeance, is a grave crime. _Especially_ this one, the darkest of all nemeses. I will not even attempt to enquire where you learned of this evil enchantment."

She cast a baleful eye at the Sorting Hat, which twitched a little and was still.

"When I was a young Auror, I was sent to the Australian plague."

She sighed at their uncomprehending faces.

"We had to rewrite the history books and the geography books after it was over. Five cities gone, deserts where there had been forests and fields, ordinary animals mutated with pouches. And to think it all began with an unusually powerful aboriginal shaman, a bottle of Bundaberg Rum, and a pair of cuddly bunnies. To this day, I cannot look at a carrot without shuddering."

Interestingly, Ron had heard of her revulsion for the orange root vegetable, but had ascribed it, with his callow male preconceptions about middle-aged spinsters, to more Freudian causes.

"It is ironic that this, the most terrible of curses, passed into the muggle folk memory in the guise of a simple pleasant parlour game. If only they knew."

She was silent, "That is it then. Four hundred points from Gryffindor for wielding the most terrible of spells, and four hundred to Gryffindor for disposing of the Dark Lord in such a gruesome manner. And another fifty for being the cause for creating a new emergency exit. The insurance people were being quite a nuisance about it. You are dismissed."

"Oh well, Harry, that didn't go too badly."

"No Ron, let's go to The Three Broomsticks. I could murder a butter beer. Or a G&T."


End file.
